


The Half that Makes Me Whole (The Only One Who Sees My Soul)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Steal My Heart (It's Already Yours) [3]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Brother/Sister Relationships, Crazy shenanigans, Investigative Reporting (with mixed results), Iris West is the world's best sister and wingwoman, Lisa Snart is a cheeky little sibling, Lisa knows who the Flash is (because she's a smart cookie), M/M, Mostly Fluff, Song-inspired, Unconventional ideas for date night, Unorthodox locations for the club scene, coldflash - Freeform, flirty banter, inopportune phone calls, somewhat secret relationship, suggestive content, very minor/implied drug use (not with any of the main characters)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24438952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: If Iris is going to insist on poking her nose where it really doesn’t belong, Barry isn’t foolish enough to try and stop her – but equally advocates that he does not need to be involved.-------------------------------Iris drags Barry to a high-end club in the name of investigative reporting and generic justice-seeking.  The evening takes an unexpected (and very much invited) turn when Barry realizes the lavish location has attracted less law-abiding attention.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Leonard Snart & Lisa Snart (background)
Series: Steal My Heart (It's Already Yours) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758994
Comments: 8
Kudos: 287





	The Half that Makes Me Whole (The Only One Who Sees My Soul)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> Happy Friday, folks! If your week has gone anything like mine, you could use a helping of fluff. Enjoy. ;)
> 
> Title comes from Laura Pausini's "Every Little Thing You Do".

If Iris is going to insist on poking her nose where it really doesn’t belong, Barry isn’t foolish enough to try and stop her – but equally advocates that he does not need to be involved. There is not one single good reason for him to be dragged along on her investigative escapades beyond that, apparently, he is very amusing while cramming his foot sideways down the throat at social engagements.

A very small reprieve comes tonight in that, unlike the high-end gala she dragged him to last month (and, fine, he will accept the compliment that he looks fetching in a suit, but his skin was crawling after five minutes of being scrutinized by the upper class while he stuck out like a broken thumb), tonight’s chosen location is a club. No, not a book club or a country club. A _club_.

Granted, a club nestled inside a renovated mansion, but still…a club.

“My sources tell me,” because that’s how all these conversations start, with Iris’ sources – Barry is becoming more convinced that she has no ‘sources’ beyond her own imagination – stirring up some sort of trouble and Barry is either dragged along for any Flash-related necessities or because she needs a plus-one to look less conspicuous, “this place is _hot_ for some serious deals. Twenty-five percent of the drug-related arrests in the last six months show the guilt party was seen at or around this place.”

Apparently there are no such things as coincidences or poor life decisions resulting in ‘wrong place, wrong time’. So, two nights later, here they are: Iris in a fitted royal blue wraparound number that Joe will _kill_ her for wearing out of the house (that, and the stiletto heels which make her legs look twice as long as Nature intended) and Barry in black: black denim, black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket which, up until recently, has been a strictly personal affair because people just don’t need to know about his every impulse purchase.

“I spent _two hours_ getting ready for tonight,” Iris is either scowling or pouting at him – hard to tell which – while tapping her heel, impatient for the line to move and put them at the door, “and you…what, threw that on last-minute because you were running late?”

“You told me you needed a hip ornament,” Barry earns himself a smack to the shoulder for that one, “you gave no specific guidelines on the dress code.”

“Seriously?” she has the good sense to drop her voice, lest eavesdroppers get suspicious, “I told you what this place was, Barry. We’re not going to a dive bar.”

“I left the converse at home, and everything fits me, so I don’t look like a homeless bum.” He adjusts the collar of his jacket, “Besides…I think I look pretty good.”

‘Pretty good’ meaning he took a couple extra once-overs of himself in the mirror and proudly grinned at the image. It couldn’t be further from the colossal nerd image he totes around every other day of the week, whether at the CCPD, at Jitters, or just walking to and from the grocery store. If he’s going to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to a high-end club in the middle of Central City’s wealthiest neighborhood, then he has automatically earned the right to try a new look and, in his modest opinion, he nailed it. He looks amazing.

The coy glances being thrown at him from a couple girls, probably around his age or very close thereto, loitering at the front door, only confirm his self-image. Iris bristles and glares at the co-eds like they have personally betrayed her.

“Keep it up, Iris,” Barry says, once their hands have each been stamped with a luminescent purple snowflake and permitted to continue onward into this alleged den of drugs and debauchery, “and I’m telling Joe what you wore tonight AND that you only got into this place because the guy out front helped himself to the view down your neckline.”

This time, he manages to avoid another swat to the shoulder, if only because he pulled the door open and bowed like a gentleman. Let it never be said he doesn’t know how to tap-dance his way out of danger.

***

They’ve been inside for an hour. Iris fluttered off to the refreshments and is already chatting up a group of ladies a little older than her, but still clearly receptive to a millennial being part of the conversation. Barry is nursing a glass from the punch bowl, not because he’s susceptible to the generous amount of alcohol mixed with the fruit juice but because he needs something to do with his hands, while taking in the sights. Whoever owns this place does not want for money: the floor is marble, the stairs carpeted in plush velvet, and copious amounts of old-world value litter every inch from top to bottom.

In short, he has quickly come to appreciate that the mansion was not renovated for modern upgrades but rather to accommodate a dance floor and open bar, and Barry is confident that – were he so inclined to check – the upstairs would show signs of ‘renovation’ to allow certain…extracurricular activities which should not be performed in a public viewing.

“My, my, _my_ …” a low drawl curls in his ear from behind, right around the same time that a hand settles low on the hip, “What do we have here?”

Barry doesn’t even try to swallow the purring response to that same mouth dragging behind his ear, “Let me guess,” he mumbles, head tipped to one side for a full-access pass, “found something you like upstairs?”

“A most illustrious collection of original art pieces.” Len’s mouth hasn’t left the little patch behind Barry’s ear, the one with a long track-record of turning the speedster into putty, “Lisa already claimed a few for her bedroom décor.”

“Mmm…” Barry nods absently; he dropped his punch on the nearest flat surface half a minute ago because his hand is much better purposed to entwine with long cool fingers at his hip, “Just tell me Mick didn’t burn anything.”

“Not tonight.” The other hand skims along Barry’s waistband and hooks the pinkie inside a pocket; the other four fingers are less innocent in an adventurous slide under his hemline, “He found a gold-plated lighter in the master bathroom and is too busy staring in rapture to actually use it.”

In the strictest sense, a lighter – however expensive and well-made – isn’t enough to burn the house down. Barry has learned to take his victories as they come.

He feels Len’s lips turn up in a satisfied curve against his jaw, “They’re playing our song.”

Barry forces his ears to cooperate and listen to the lyrics. He and Len don’t actually _have_ a song, but after catching a few lines from the lulling tune purring out of the speakers, he isn’t inclined to disagree. “Are you getting sentimental on me, Len?”

“It’s a failing.” The older man catches Barry’s lobe with a fleeting scrape of teeth, then drops his mouth into the crook of neck and shoulder. “Though I’m inclined to think you came here tonight with certain…expectations.”

The hand on his waistband pushes backwards, once, and Barry exhales softly as his spine meets the unyielding plane of tight muscle under Len’s thermal shirt. No parka tonight – probably stands out too much, even if he and the crew weren’t planning to make an appearance – but he can hear the combined leather of their respective jackets whispering in motion. “The way you look tonight…” this time, the scrap of teeth along bare skin earns a hitched gasp, “…Think you’re just _begging_ to be stolen away.”

“You can’t steal me if I go willingly.”

Len chuckles, a low and warm vibration against the skin, “Look at that: a loophole.”

The tempo picks up a bit. Barry feels the music in the air, shimmering across his skin, as distinctly as he feels the solid press of Len’s body against his own. There is no vocal discussion regarding what happens next; rather, all actions arise from a mental connection as figurative as the literal connection happening between their bodies. Slow and heavy drags of Len’s mouth against the most sensitive places on Barry’s neck; a solid grip of hands, fingers loosely entwined, on the waist; and the relentless roll of hips into the lower back. One hand, Barry’s, escapes the hold to crawl up the side of his lover’s face and find permanent placement, palm cradling the flexing line of jaw. He grins, just a little, to feel the rasp of stubble. He’s told Len, more than once, the five o’clock shadow makes him look many things, and not among them is the description of ‘old’.

A low vibration buzzes against Barry’s hip, and the responding groan is (thankfully) drowned by a new song, faster tempo, pumping from the speakers, “Don’t answer that.”

“It’s Lisa.”

Barry mutters something incoherent (and uncivilized) under his breath. He has no qualms against Lisa herself, but he has plenty against her timing. If he were to look up right now, he knows he would see her peeking over the railing with a burner cradled to her ear and a wicked grin stretched across her face. Little minx is SO lucky she’s too cute to genuinely hate.

“This is payback for me running out on you last week, isn’t it?” he grumbles.

Len smirks and kisses the back of his neck, even as he takes the call without moving one inch. “Bad timing, Sis.”

“ _Mickey’s getting bored…_ ” the phone is close enough (or, rather, the two of them are close enough) that Barry can hear her pouty croon through the line, “ _And you promised me ice cream._ ”

“What are you, five?” Barry mutters, head dropping back onto Len’s shoulder.

“ _You know you wuv me…_ ” she coos, and Barry honestly can’t tell if she’s referring to him, Len, or both, “ _C’mon, Lenny…the ice cream parlor closes in an hour._ ”

“Brat.” Len mutters, then ends the call and shoves his burner back in the back pocket, “I’m grounding her from heists for a month.”

“We both know you’ll never be able to hold out that long.” Barry turns his head to kiss whatever of the older man’s throat he can currently reach.

“Fine. A week, then.” 

A low and unquestionably pleased hum buzzes against Len’s jaw, where Barry is raising a little mark as a souvenir, “Does that mean I’ll get you all to myself when you visit the Nature and Science Museum next week?”

“Barry,” Len chides, “I never hit a new exhibit on opening week. That’s terrible form.”

“Even when the exhibit includes the world’s largest ruby?”

Len pauses a little too long, and Barry grins triumphantly. “I’ll clear my schedule, babe,” he breathes, right in the man’s ear, “make sure you do the same.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

“So,” Iris bumps his leg with her hip, a wicked grin plastered across her face, “you gonna hit that tonight?”

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight,” Barry opens the door, once again the gentleman, and the aromas of fresh-cut fries and greasy hamburgers wafts to greet them, “just because I told you Len and I are together, and you didn’t completely freak on me, does _not_ mean I spill my guts about every single encounter he and I have in public or otherwise.”

“Please.” She slides into the booth across from him and lightly brushes the menu aside; they’ve been to this twenty-four-hour diner so many times, the menu might as well be tattooed at the front of their brains, “Like I need you to spill your guts when I have eyes. You looked ready to drop right there on the dance floor for him tonight.”

“Sorry to disappoint, _Sis_ ,” he adds a sassy emphasis just to be cheeky, “but Len would never let anyone else get the view.”

Her foot lightly pops him under the table, graciously mindful of the point of her heel (which, in Barry’s opinion, should be considered a deadly weapon), before dropping back to the linoleum with an audible click. “So…what now? Raincheck?”

Barry’s face splits into a grin, “And it’s gonna be one _hell_ of a raincheck.”

“Get it, Bro.” the connection of their open palms across the table is a resounding smack that earns a couple looks from the kitchen staff. Neither of them cares.


End file.
